The threadly hand of death

I’ve never been a very girly girl. I don’t do heels or makeup and as a general principle, I don’t shave anything. Ever. It’s one of the upsides about being a girl, I never have to take a sharp blade to myself unless Tom Brady has accepted the job as starting quarterback for the Colts!

I’m not particularly hairy, so it’s rarely an issue, but whenever the need arises, I will skip on over to some local beauty salon and they’ll wax it all away. I know waxing, as described, *should* hurt, but it’s never bothered me, so I’ll do it. The cost annoys me more than anything, but I’m still not brave enough to try a do it yourself, melted wax solution, Though, I figure candles in the microwave *should* work…right?

Anyway, yesterday was one of those days that I decided to do some upkeep since I had a doctor’s appointment this morning.

I drove out to Bay Parkway to go to my favorite place, but it was closed.

Way to celebrate Labor Day by NOT working, ladies!

I then decided to go to my fallback guy who was open when I left my house to go to Blockbuster earlier that the day. I was greeted with silver gates.

WHAT. THE. WHAT??!?!

I shook my fist and kicked rocks as I headed back to my apartment building. But then… hello…

A shop that I’ve never seen before stood before me with a sign that said “Come in We’re Open.” It looked like a hair salon, but there was a notice about manicures and pedicures. I went inside, and sure enough, they offered all the services I needed. The prices were slightly higher (in the case of the manicures and pedicures double, in fact) than my regular spot, but I was in a bind and they took credit cards. I confirmed with the lady that they wouldn’t close in the time it would take me to run home and get a credit card.

She assured me they would be open till 7.

I went back, they started my manicure and pedicure and whatnot, but said I would have to wait a bit till the “eyebrow girl” came back.

I wasn’t worried, the pedicure alone would take forever and a day.

Sure enough, the eyebrow girl was idly waiting for me by the time my manicure was over. I sat with my hands under the wholly ineffective polish dryer for ten minutes before I noticed she was anxiously looking at her watch and tapping her feet expectantly.

I touched my thumb and the perfect imprint of my pointer finger told me it wasn’t dry. However, it also told me that if the polish was this wet after ten minutes, I might as well get my eyebrows done in the meanwhile, because drying was going to take longer than I anticipated.

I walked over to the chair and it had this cool recline feature! Hooray. That would be the last expression of joy from me for the rest of my life.

I didn’t see the little wax cart that the other girl had used on my legs earlier. The eyebrow girl was wrapping sewing thread around her fingers.

Oh. I saw this crap on the news one time. This is dumb. Boo. I was already reclined in the chair, so I figured “whatever.”

And then she set to work on my face.

Oh. MY. GAWD.

HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST.

I don’t know how she did it without my noticing, but she had somehow swapped out the thread for razor blades, barbed wire and possibly a vat of acid. I screamed until I passed out and then the pain resusitated me and then I resumed screaming. Repeat.

Tears were streaming down my face, washing away the flecks of eyebrow hair and flesh from my eyes. She didn’t speak English, but evidently “Oh my FUCKING GOD in HEAVEN” is the same in every language. So she goes “I do slower? Yes?”

NO!

Now, I was suffering the ripping of my face in her sadistic cats-in-the-cradle-weave follicle by follicle!

I grabbed at my face. Bits of hair flaked onto my nails, which were still not dry. The manicure lady removed my hand and redid the nails with the hair on them. She then took it upon herself to hold my arms down!

I drafted my notice to the Geneva Convention in my mind.

“Why you laugh,” she asked.

Before I could answer the eyebrow girl set upon my left eye. I resumed screaming and crying for help.

Why, people of Brooklyn, why are you so cruel and unhelping?

The manicure lady, the only English speaker in the place, started making small talk.

“Well, you know the price of beauty is the hurt.” She gave a stilted laugh. I punched her in the face. Well, I would have, but her grip on my arms was remarkably strong.

I made a mental note to punch her in the face when I got free.

Eyebrow girl was unrelenting. My whole face was on fire; she hummed to herself.

I thought if I held my breath, the pain would lessen. I was wrong. I thought if I breathed in extra the pain would lessen. Wrong again.

Well, it has to be over soon, right? I only have two eyebrows…

Uh uh.

She went back to the right to “shape it.” Kill me.

I wondered why we were having debates about waterboarding when we could just dispatch Caligula to thread the eyebrows of terror suspects. Seriously, get me on the phone with the President.

When she finally stopped Edward Scissorhanding my face with thread, the manicure lady took a brush and swept away the errant hairs.

“It looks very good.”

I could not open my eyes. I could barely stand.

I stumbled into the street and finished the walk home.

When feeling returned and I opened my eyes, I googled this “procedure.” Evidently, it is very common in India and Pakistan. So, first thing this morning, I racistly asked my Indian co-workers:

“What is up with your people trying to MURDER me yesterday?”

The short regular height, outgoing one laughed.

“Yeah, threading hurts a lot the first time, but then you get used to it?”

“Are you CRAZY? Why would you EVER go BACK?”

“Because it makes your eyebrows look pretty. Doesn’t she look so pretty today,” she said to my other Indian co-worker.

13 Responses to The threadly hand of death

So funny because going to a salon and getting waxed to me seems much more girly-girl than shaving yourself.

I used to feel like I *ought* to like salon treatments — everyone else seems so into them. But at some point, I realized, I just don’t like strangers touching me. I don’t even like getting my hair cut. And manicures and pedicures with tools that have been used on others? Ick. Saves me money, though.

I’ve managed to get past that to enjoy massages, though. I just try not to think about where those hands have been.